In the very beginning, people kept telling me to "enjoy the pregnancy!" because "it'll be over in a flash!" and at the time I wanted to kill them. For one thing, I do not like being ordered to "enjoy it while it lasts!" because this somehow implies that I wasn't already enjoying it, and I was plenty overjoyed thankyouverymuch. And secondly, I felt like general ass for the first couple of months and it wasn't particularly enjoyable. So shove your cheerful orders right down your nauseous, barftastic throat and see how you "enjoy it!", assholes.
Anyway, the point is I now feel like the pregnancy is truly flying by. Don't get me wrong, I also feel like I have been pregnant my entire life. It's been less than six months since I first stood in the bathroom trying to convince Joel that that was in fact, a second line, I was sure of it because I had been I had compared it to the previous five days' tests (what?). I can hardly remember what it was like to wear normal clothes and drink coffee every day. Someone asked me how far along I was on Monday and I had a panicked moment where I couldn't remember. Twenty-three weeks? Twenty-four? Twenty-five, I blurted out, because I have taken to slightly exaggerating just how far along I am with strangers in hopes of preempting any comments about how I'm just so HUGE for [insert number of weeks here]. (It's working, because no one has insisted that I'm having twins or called me a hippopotamus in weeks.) And then when I got home and looked at the calendar I realized, holy shit. I actually AM at twenty-five weeks. It's just like the time I accidentally lied to the doctor about my age because I couldn't do the math in my head fast enough, so I just guessed. The more things change, huh?
I half want things to slow down so I can enjoy and record and cherish and all that. Feeling the baby kick and move all the time. Looking undeniably pregnant, but not so huge that I'm desperately uncomfortable and can't get around. Experiencing all the stereotypical pregnancy symptoms without wanting to throw myself off a bridge just to escape the nausea. These are probably the best weeks, I know.
But still, I'm half ready for this pregnancy to be over. I wouldn't mind having control of my own body back. I am a little tired of having to work my morning schedule around baby-induced, ahem, gastrointestinal issues. (Which present themselves at exactly the moment I need to leave for work every. single. day. So I can either 1) be late to work because I was... tied up in the bathroom, 2) try to make it to work and deal with the issue there [no thank you] or 3) wait until the next day. Because apparently that's how it works. It's 8:15am or nothing, THANKS BABY.) I'd like to be able to sleep on my stomach again. Just for one, blissful night. I'd like to not have to get up six time (SIX TIMES) a night to pee. And I would really, really, REALLY like to have one of the cool, refreshing mojito-type drink concoctions I've been making for Joel with fresh mint from the garden and leftover ginger ale from the morning sickness days. Or, at the very least, I'd take one of those green apple Smirnoff Ices we have in the leftover in the fridge from when some friends were visiting back in March. They just look so... cool. Refreshing. Delicious. Have I mentioned that it is hotter than hell? No, really, we are setting records and shit here on the East Coast for hottest May ever in the history of the universe, and guys: I am scared. People warned me, "it's going to be a long, hot summer!" and I dismissed them, because 1) not much I can do about it now, guys, and at least I won't have to buy a maternity coat SO THERE and 2) I am pretty used to the Baltimore heat. I know it's not pleasant, but I can deal with it. I'd rather be hot than cold any day.
That's what I said, anyway. Now I think I'd like to move to Antarctica. We walked the seven minutes over to the garden plot over the weekend and I felt just like I used to feel after running ten miles in the ridiculous heat. Like I was never going to be cool again. I asked Joel to spray me with the hose in the garden (normally I would murder him; I hate water, I hate swimming, and I don't even like showering). When we got home I had to run my feet under cold water in the bathtub. While fantasizing about buying a kiddie pool, filling it with ice cubes, and spending the rest of my life submerged in it up to my neck. This was all in MAY. I am not really sure how I am going to survive July, let alone August.
But most of all, more than the heat and the peeing every ten minutes and the not-so-gentle kicks in the gut, I am ready to be done with the emotional pregnancy roller coaster. I mean, this week I feel great. That's nice. Last week was not to nice, not when I was sobbing in the bathroom because I felt like a terrible mother already. You see, we still have yet to purchase a single baby item and I had absolutely no idea where to start or any sort of urge to find out. I'd read about other people making grand plans for paint colors and cute art for the walls of the nursery or spending hours researching car seats and crib mattresses and I just could not make myself care. About any of it. Why didn't I want to do this stuff? Why didn't I want to go buy baby clothes and pre-wash them and fold them perfectly in the dresser (which we don't have) next to the baby's (non-existent) crib? Why, instead of feeling all starry-eyed and lovey when the baby kicked me (hard) (right in the guts), did I find myself resenting the baby and wishing I could just have a break for five goddamn minutes to eat my food without having it kicked back up my esophagus? If I already couldn't handle the stress of a non-complicated, relatively easy pregnancy, how in the hell was I going to handle a crying, pooping, demanding newborn? I diagnosed myself with some kind of pre-partum depression and then I cried for three days straight anytime someone mentioned the word "baby".
And then, suddenly, I started to feel better. I realized it was going to be OK. Janet reminded me how crazy people got about wedding stuff, too. I remembered how people were shocked that I had no idea what our bouquets were going to look like until they showed up on the day of the wedding. And the look of horror when I admitted that we weren't having favors. Not even a donating to charity in lieu of favors or anything like that. I just didn't care about them, so we weren't having them. And I was fine with that. It didn't mean I didn't care about our wedding. And having no desire to read 800 crib reviews on Amazon doesn't mean I don't care about the baby. That makes sense now, but it didn't last week.
Helping a lot to pull me out of the funk is that fact that we are now officially registered for baby gifts. See! Something has been done! (Never mind that someone at work asked me if we had our nursery all set up and I stammered something about it not being quite finished yet. And by that I meant, our "nursery" is still our living room. But at least it's painted a nice, gender-neutral shade of green, so we've got a head start there!) We spent two hours, armed with a scanner gun and Amalah's registry checklist, in the baby section of Target on Saturday. And then we treated ourselves to Chick-Fil-A as a reward, amen. Joel finished our Amazon registry on Monday night. I nearly cried again (happy tears! the good ones!) looking at all the stuff he'd put on there on Tuesday morning. Stuff that he'd picked out for our child. Just thinking of him picking out a Cat in the Hat hooded towel for our baby to use is so amazingly wonderful that it feels like... too much. My heart feels like bursting. And those are the happy hormones talking, I know. I like them much, much more than the mean, sad hormones. But I think I am ready to have all these hormones go back to my baseline level of crazy.
(Jesus, even I'm starting to think it's twins.)